CHARGED-UP RESULTS

It’s 2:19 a.m. The house is quiet. Not a peaceful quiet, but that heavy  silence that makes you aware of every small sound. The hum of the fridge. The click of the heater. The clock seems louder than usual. Everyone else is asleep. It feels like the whole world is holding its breath, and I am the only one  awake. I should be asleep too. But I’m sitting here in the glow of my screen, thinking about something that keeps circling in my head. The person you are when no one’s watching. That version of yourself. The one that shows up when the world goes still and there’s no one to impress or perform for. The one that doesn’t care what your face looks like or what anyone thinks. During the day, it feels like I switch through many  different versions of myself. There’s the one that smiles at teachers, the one that tries to sound normal with friends, the one that pretends not to care too much about anything. Sometimes I catch myself laughing a certain way or saying things that don’t even feel like me. It’s like I’m building a character that people will like better than the real thing. But then the day ends. The lights go off. The noise fades. And I’m left with only me That’s when it feels strange. Because when all the people and the expectations are gone, I’m not totally sure who I am. When no one’s watching, I talk to myself out loud sometimes. I snicker to myself. I scroll through old memories. I think about things I never say out loud. I let my brain wander to all the stuff I hide behind jokes and small talk. I’m not funny then. I’m not confident. I’m  a person trying to figure things out. It’s weird how different we can be when we’re alone. Not better or worse, just… real. When no one’s there to tell you how you should act, you stop pretending. You stop holding your stomach in or picking the right words. You just exist. It’s not always comfortable. Sometimes being alone with yourself feels like standing in front of a mirror for too long. You start to notice every little flaw, every thought you’ve tried to ignore. You see the person you actually are instead of the person you want to be. And that can be hard. Because what if you don’t always like that person? What if the quiet version of you feels a little lost, lonely or tired? I think that’s the version that matters most. The person you are when no one’s watching is the one who feels the truth first. The one who knows what you actually care about. The one who remembers who you wanted to be before you started caring what everyone else thought. When no one’s watching, the mask drops. You can cry without feeling dramatic or judged. You can dream without feeling stupid. You can say what you think without worrying if it sounds weird or will draw eyes. That person might not be the one the world sees, but they’re real. Maybe the most real. Sometimes I think about how strange it is that so much of who we are is never seen. No one knows about the conversations we have in our heads or the moments we talk ourselves through something painful. No one sees the way we sit in the dark and try to make sense of it all. Those parts of us are invisible. But they’re the reason we keep going. I guess being alone isn’t just about silence. It’s about meeting yourself again. Without the noise. Without the pretending. And maybe that’s something we all need more of. The truth is, we’ll spend most of our lives switching between different versions of ourselves. Over time, I’ve learned you shouldn’t put on a character. You should embrace who you are. And if the people around you think of you a different way… they aren’t people you should be around. Maybe that’s what growing up is. Learning to bring a little more of that real self into the daylight. Being brave enough to let the world see the person you are at 2 a.m., even if it’s messy, even if it’s not perfect. So here I am. It’s 2:19 a.m. The glow of my screen is fading, and the silence feels heavier now. But in this moment, I feel honest. I feel like myself. Not the version everyone else gets, just me — tired, overthinking, wondering, existing. The person I am when no one’s watching. And for now, that feels like enough.

SATIRE No one ever in the wildest dreams ever expects to be viewed as THAT person. The person who ends up experiencing such a tragic event that they are forever known by it. They are marked by the thing that happened to them, the thing that is so unspeakable, so… traumatic.  This is my story.  My daily walks are part of my special routine and it is something that I pride myself in; they're my way to decompress after a hard day crossing the road. My path is always the same from the roads, past the school and right through the woods. I’ve done it everyday since I could remember. That all changed on Clucktober 29. As I was coming to the clearing where I would typically enter the woods, I suddenly felt something hit my head.  It was a feeling I had never quite experienced before. It was a small but  mighty plop, leaving a small sting that lingered on my head. I reached up to grab it and found it was a small and round little thing that almost looked like it was wearing a hat. I immediately knew what it was… a piece of the sky. My stomach dropped as I realized more and more what this meant. “THE SKY IS FALLING!” I yelled in a panic as I began to run the other way.  I knew I needed to tell everyone and spread the news. They all needed to know what was happening. I mean who wouldn’t want to know that it’s their last day on Earth? Because I was in such a heightened state of worry, I zoomed through the street screaming “THE SKY IS FALLING, THE SKY IS FALLING.”  On my way through town, I could see the panic being incited by everyone–mothers trying to shield their babies from the panic. Citizens speeding through the streets in an attempt to reach their loved ones. I felt terrible for the destruction caused by my message but it did not matter. I couldn’t stop until everyone knew what was happening. It was my duty to let them know. I sped and sped as fast as any chicken could go until I made it to the town square, where I could share my news at the podium. As I confidently walked up to the podium, I was prepared to make my statement. I tapped on the microphone and was greeted with some quick minor feedback and the attention of all the citizens of Cluck Haven staring back at me. Through fear and nervousness I stood up and stated, “Citizens of Cluck Haven, as I am sure you heard today, during my regular 2:30 p.m. walk, a piece of the sky fell on my head.” Citizens began to shift from a state of panic to a blend of fear and intrigue as I spoke. “I am here to present you all with the piece that hit me.”  The crowd's intrigue grew as I pulled out the round little brown thing with a hat once again. “May I present you all with a piece of the sky.” I had succeeded in letting the citizens know the horrific news and I could now present my findings. I pulled out the sky and held it proud for the world to see. But something changed. Suddenly the face that was once a look of intrigue turned into confusion and exasperation. I just couldn’t fathom why.  “THAT’S AN ACORN YOU MORON!” I heard someone yell from the crowd. Strings of screams and profanities were aimed at me as I tried to fight back, “IT’S THE SKY! I SWEAR IT IS! JUST LOOK! NO ACORN LOOKS LIKE THIS.” But that was it. The people made their choice. The sky wasn’t falling, and me… I was just viewed as “crazy Chicken Little.” Life would never be the same after that. The next few days were extremely hard to get through. I was shunned by all of my friends and the town decided it would be best if I went to a center for troubled chickens. Tysons Home for Future Dino Nuggets, they called it. When I was admitted, I brought the piece of the sky with me. Everyone here believes me but that's not enough. My own town disregarded my warning and shamed me. So now I’m here at Tysons, wondering how I can ever get Cluck Haven to understand that the sky is falling and it fell on me. Thank you all for listening.

I wandered through a world of noise,  Where silence used to scream.  Each echo told a tale undone,  Each shadow held a painful wound. My heart longs for belonging and safety. The faces I pass blur into one endless crowd. Everyone seemed to know who they were and where they were supposed to be. Here I stood still, unable to move a muscle. Letting the world rush past me, wondering whether I will learn to move like them. In the end, the noise never became familiar. I remained a foreigner, and it stayed foreign to me. Its sharp edges cutting through every moment I try to hold on to.  I learned too soon that dreams are a luxury,  Life does not wait.  The stars forgot to shine,  Even the man on the moon turned away. There was a time when I believed in things. A time when I believed that every star in the sky was shining just for me. I believed in small things: birthday wishes, coins tossed into fountains and dandelion seeds floating away with whispered hopes. This wishful thinking required a kind of innocence that seems to have slipped out of my hands before I even understood what it meant to have it. The starry night became just a sky. Dark, empty and indifferent to my desire to see it shine again. I’d look up hoping to see something, feel something, anything but the stars looked away. And the moon, my old companion and guide for lonely Haitian children, turned his face from me, even it knew I was beyond repair.  I skipped years of scraped-up knees,  Of laughter in the sun.  Played grown-up in a broken world,  Before my time came.  Other children were learning to ride bikes and sharing secrets at sleepovers. I was learning how to survive. While other children were drowning in their parents' love, I was learning a different kind. I learned to read a room. How to make my voice smaller. How to calculate the weight of life. I became fluent in the kind of language that others don’t have to start learning until they are adults. There were no training wheels for the lessons I learned. No gentle introduction, just a sudden, harsh slap into a reality that didn’t care whether I was ready for it.  The kind of love you only hear about, But never see stay. Four walls cold and gray, Nothing in, nothing out. I learned about love from books and movies. It would be a lie if I couldn’t admit the jealous ache I feel watching other families through the same pair of eyes I watched mine fall apart. Love seems like a myth, a fairy tale meant for other people. The love I knew was always temporary and one wrong move away from vanishing. Or maybe it was never there at all, and I was just holding on to emptiness. The walls around my heart grew higher and stronger; they keep everything out. They also keep me trapped inside alone with the echo of my own heartbeat.  I read of catching children, Before they slipped away. But no one stood the rye for me, No hands to hold, no names to call. I search for answers and I search for someone, anyone who would understand me. Holden Caulfield and his dream of saving children from falling off the cliff, of keeping them safe in their innocence. I understood that dream so deeply it hurt. Understanding that dream also meant that I knew I’d already fallen. There was no Catcher at the edge waiting for me. I fell alone, in silence and no one came looking for me. By the time I had landed, I was someone, something different. Someone older, harder, colder and more careful than anyone should have to be.  A swing that never swayed. A childhood I can almost touch, Touched memories with trembling hands, Each one too faint to kiss. There is a playground in my mind; I visit it sometimes in my loneliest moments. It has swings, slides and all the typical pieces of a normal childhood. But when I reach out, nothing moves. The swings hang still, the slides lead nowhere, the sandbox is empty. I stand in the middle of this frozen scene, close enough to touch but never close enough to have. I get to stand there and see what I missed, knowing that it only exists as a shadow in my mind. A ghost of a life I was supposed to live, but never got to do so.

To my peers, and to my community, It was winter break, December 2024 and while my mind was reeling from months of late rent payments and struggles with college courses, my mother surprised me for Christmas with a flight to North Carolina. She moved months ago, and what little she knew of my struggle on campus, she knew less of my struggle on my own. I was scared to step away from so much responsibility, even for a few days. My mother’s worry is worse than any anxiety. I couldn’t parse her seeing how I was during that semester. I was lost and ashamed of my academic performance. Mom was certain I needed time away from the chaos, and she was right. I just couldn’t pry myself away from what I was busy with. In her simple Charlotte apartment, I spent evenings with encrypted phone calls, signal chats and proton email chains, planning a northeast students for Palestine day of action. There was not a moment I wasn’t face first in my journals, so to the dismay of my protector. Mom had seen me restlessly toss and turn in the mornings over lost sleep. I was burning holes into the back of my notebook, erasing and re-erasing edits. Finally, near the second to last day of my layaway turned conference call, Mom sat me onto the couch for some quality time. I got to pick the movie and the snacks, just like we used to do at home. 12-year-old Patch would stay up finishing whatever was on FX, and mom’s promise not to fall asleep was universally broken (but I had never minded it). This time, sitting beside her at 20 years old, I chose to watch Judas and the Black Messiah. Fred Hampton’s life, assassination and the story of the man whose complicity got him killed. What moved me to start thrifting textbooks and stealing away into the shelves of Peterson Library was not some grandiose awakening of the self. I never had a perfect moment, and I’m certain there were no lightbulbs involved either. I never even considered myself leftist until this January. It’s a strange thing because I didn’t even notice the change until I noticed the questions. “What can get others to understand this?” “What is the real risk of protesting?” “Who can I count on to care about this?” “How do I know that without speaking even more?” Three simple changes in framing: How did this happen? Why is it still happening? How does it stop? Reaching the last wasn’t possible without accepting the place I was in. I needed to treat myself like a learning, growing person and not striving to become a monolith of leadership. Seriously considering that maybe if I don’t know the answer, I can teach myself to find it. Lead with my actions and act on my principles. During the New Haven Black Panther trials of 1986, Angela Davis was in confinement awaiting her moments to testify in court. In her interview filmed from the cell, she said something that stuck with me. “The real content of any revolutionary thrust lies in the principles; in the goals that you are striving for, not in the ways that you reach them.” I believe all my peers can learn for themselves how our system of oppression operates, and in exactly what terms and manners it trickles into our lives. I believe that for my peers to gain this awareness it will take a conscious, dedicated, long effort on my person to engage them in these discussions of freedom, because how else will these discussions come about? I stay believing, despite the raids and shootings and lynchings across America, that my peers and I will not be intimidated by any oppressive force. My peers and I rather quickly are becoming the leaders of our generation. That means by teaching ourselves to lead, learn and speak, we start to free ourselves from silent classrooms and isolated in-groups. I believe that with this letter, addressed largely to the Black student, the Latino student, the international student, the queer student and the Muslim student; and still so addressed to the wider campus community of workers, faculty, staff, families, friends and allies; I can rally you under our collective struggle, and stir the type of social consciousness needed for the moment of history we live within. I believe you are ready to lead in the same way I am. I believe that only trying will realize that potential. Always, Patch Isaiah Bowen Colon

Do you believe in ghosts? Well, I do. Throughout human history, people have always been curious about stories involving ghosts, spirits and the supernatural. Cultures around the world have their own version of these tales and stories of the unseen that linger between life and death. A ghost is often described as the soul of a person who died but can’t move on for some reason. Sometimes they appear like shadows or figures, other times they are heard through noises, whispers or footsteps. People rarely see them, or at least that is what we think. We often associate them with fear, mystery and religion. Some say that ghosts are not real and are simply a product of our imagination. Others believe that ghosts are real because of something they were told or saw with their own eyes. I am one of those people who know ghosts exist not because of what I have been told but because of what I saw. I was born and raised in Haiti. One of the well-known practices in Haiti is Vodou, or “Voodoo” in English. Vodou was introduced in Haiti when enslaved Africans brought their traditional beliefs to the Caribbean and mixed them with elements of Christianity. It is a constant fight between good and evil, God vs. Satan or Angels vs. Demons. These spirits, known as Lwa , serve as intermediaries between humans and the divine. Voodoo practitioners, known as Oungan  (male) and Mambo  (female), can communicate with these spirits through rituals. Such rituals include a ceremony called Gede , which is used to communicate with the spirits of the dead, among others. These ceremonies only scratch the surface of what we call “black magic”. In Haiti we have a saying that goes “magi pa monte avion”, which translates to “magic does not take planes.” It is a way to say that the less you know and believe in black magic, the better off you are. I remember my parents telling me that curiosity is dangerous when it comes to the supernatural. We grew up knowing that certain things are simply not done in our culture. Some of those stories were told to children to scare them into behaving, but other stories were so real that we saw them happen in real life. My family and I were always Christian. We grew up going to church. I was not exposed to a lot of magic in Haiti, but I definitely saw and heard enough. Every culture has its own version of magi . Some people use it for protection; others use it for their personal gain like money or revenge. One of the scariest things for me was when someone was about to die and they would say, “they have come for me.” That sentence used to terrify me. Nighttime in Haiti was bittersweet. We had no electricity so I would spend hours looking at the stars and using this giant book, bigger than me, to try to name them. The flip side was when someone sent you to get something either in the house or out back by yourself, with nothing but the moonlight to guide you. Suffice it to say, many of us were terrified. But then again, we would still come back and listen to more scary stories. Now that I am older and far away from my home, I have learned that most of those stories were not only true but also done by people very close to me. My parents tried their best to teach us not to be disrespectful to others and to mind our business. I now understand why my father practically built our home inside of a prison like a fortress. Four giant walls staring back at me. Another crucial lesson I learned is that jealousy makes people wicked. Some people can’t stand to see others succeed. Even today, that kind of jealousy can show up as a friend who tries to steal another’s boyfriend or destroy their careers. In Haiti and in many African countries, jealousy mixed with magic can be detrimental. On days like today, I feel torn. I love my country, but I do not like what is happening to my country. Whether it’s guns or black magic, both are hurting my people. Both are hurting me. On days like today, I am the daughter of another country.

My weight enters the room before I do. It doesn’t matter if I’m having a good hair day. It doesn’t matter if I walk in with a smile on my face. It doesn’t matter if I’m wearing makeup. My body is the first thing people always notice. The first time I noticed I was different was when I was five. I was going on the bus to school and made friends with two twin sisters. The seat I sat in that day became my assigned seat on the bus. I didn’t know the choice I made would turn out to be a bad one. Three kids in one seat on a bumpy ride to elementary school. I was at the end and I kept falling off. My naive self simply said, “I don’t know why I keep falling out of the seat.” One of the sisters turned to look at me and said, “It’s because I’m skinny and you’re fat.” I went silent. I had no idea how to respond to that. I was only five, but I already knew “fat” was an insult. I didn’t speak to them for the rest of the ride to school. That one comment consumed all my thoughts. I couldn’t get rid of it. I especially could not stop anticipating the ride back home. When the end of the day finally came, I was forced to sit with them on the bus. I cried to myself the whole ride home while they whispered to each other about throwing my backpack out of the window. The bus driver knew the state I was in and didn’t care enough to find out why I was upset. For the next few years, I would go back and forth with dieting. I watched “PowerGirl Fitness” on YouTube and was inspired by Breanna Bond’s weight-loss story. I tried one session of personal training with my father, but he called me a bunch of names when recounting what happened with my mom. Nothing ever stuck because I looked to food for comfort when nothing else was there for me. My weight was always the elephant in the room. People felt the need to acknowledge it, even when it did not correlate with the topic being discussed. I had experience being called names in real life. As I got older, my new battle was cyberbullying. If I thought that people could be so mean to my face, I had no idea how much worse it would feel from behind a screen. I posted a song cover on YouTube when I was 10. I didn’t know it then, but I would soon discover that whenever I got views, I’d receive comments about my body even if it had nothing to do with the post. “She’s chubby.” That was the comment. Nothing crazy, but at the time, I was broken by it. For some reason, it almost felt worse having a stranger comment on my body. The next time was when someone from middle school replied to my Snapchat story and asked why my Bitmoji wasn’t fat. As if I’m supposed to make sure my cartoon profile with a freakishly large head accurately represents my body. These were the same people who thought it was funny to make their Bitmoji a different race. And they were taunting me for having a thin avatar. When I joined TikTok, nothing was different for me. I kept posting song covers and joined in on dance trends. I was safe as long as the videos stayed within my social circle. All bets were off when the views skyrocketed. My most viral moment was an impression video that got over a million likes. Even though I had a sea of positive comments, my brain only focused on the negative ones. I called my impression “my biggest flex.” The video was humorous. I wasn’t dancing or trying to look pretty. I didn’t do anything that would warrant a response about the way I looked. Still, someone had to address the elephant in the room. “Your biggest flex is that you can stand on a scale without seeing the numbers,” someone said. These trolls loved to come out of the woodwork to spread the word about my body as if they were Paul Revere. “Look, everybody! She’s fat! Hey you! Do you know that you’re fat?” I recently posted about a television show I liked getting a second season. I was trying to be funny by stating my political ideology because the show satirically depicts conservative women. This obviously enraged some people. They had to find a cheap way of getting to me. A user called me a lifetime supply of bacon. Even though I’ve been working on my weight since the beginning of the year. Even though I’ve lost over 40 pounds. Even though I wouldn’t let myself go to bed until I reached 10,000 steps. It did not matter. That person was seeing me for the first time, and since I did not change enough, they still addressed the elephant in the room. I wish that people wouldn’t make assumptions about me before they really get to know me. I wish that before somebody got the chance to talk to me, in person or online, they’d get a disclaimer about what I’ve been through. They have no idea what it’s like to be deathly afraid to step on a scale for some math problem in kindergarten. To be only 10 and have a kid take your phone on the bus and laugh at you for having a dieting app.  To hear your family members echo the phrase “a minute on the lips, forever on the hips.” To have your grandparent be concerned about you working at an ice cream shop because it might be “too tempting.” To watch your friends call themselves fat when you know you’re much bigger than them, making you wonder if they think that way about you too. To go to the mall and leave with nothing because clothes don’t fit. To have friends say they could never picture you in a relationship. To blow out your birthday candles and have the same wish every year. To be thin. They don’t know. And I’m so painfully aware of it. If there’s anyone who knows I’m fat, I promise you, it’s me. It makes me avoid the mirror. It makes me run out of the frame when a picture is taken. It makes me feel like I can’t live  my life until I’m thin. But I’m not there yet. For now, I’m just the elephant in the room.

I’m a huge food person. I love eating, I love cooking, and I love finding places that make me feel like life is just a little better after every bite. New Haven is known for its pizza, and it deserves the hype, but there’s so much more to eat here. Between school, shoots and long editing nights, these spots have become my go-tos. They’re the kind of places that feed both your stomach and your soul. OhK-Dog New Haven 21 Broadway, New Haven, Conn. 06511 If you’ve walked near the New Haven Green, you’ve probably seen OhK-Dog. It’s small, affordable and always smells amazing. You can grab a meal here for $5 to $12, and it’s easy to get to by bus or on foot. The menu is all about Korean street food like crispy corn dogs, tteokbokki and bubble tea. My favorite thing on the menu is the Potato Mozza Dog. It’s crunchy on the outside, gooey on the inside and honestly perfect. There’s something about that mix of melted cheese, fried potato and the sound of everyone biting into theirs that makes the whole place feel alive. The staff is friendly, the energy is fun and the food never misses. Food Truck Paradise 351 Long Wharf Drive, New Haven, Conn. 06511 If you’ve ever driven down Long Wharf Drive and wondered why there’s a line of trucks by the water, that’s Food Truck Paradise. And yes, it’s as good as it sounds. “Five tacos for $10” is a phrase everyone here knows, and it’s true. My favorite stop is Tacos Santa Ines. It’s a red truck, and the woman who runs it greets everyone with the kind of energy that makes you feel instantly welcome. Her tacos are packed with flavor: simple, juicy and always satisfying. After that, I always walk over to Chicky Munchy for a piña colada and their steak skewers, which are truly life-changing. The food comes from all over, including Mexico, Puerto Rico and Cuba, and it’s all made with love. You can sit by the water, watch the boats and just enjoy. It’s one of those places where everything tastes better because of the atmosphere. The salty air, the music from the trucks and the mix of people chatting and laughing make it feel like its own little world. Mecha Noodle Bar 201 Crown St., New Haven, Conn. 06511 When it’s freezing outside and you want something that feels like a hug in a bowl, go to Mecha Noodle Bar. It’s a modern spot downtown with parking nearby, and it’s always packed for good reason. Their ramen selection is excellent, but my favorite is the Spicy Miso. The broth is rich and deep, the noodles are perfect, and the whole thing feels like comfort in a spoon. I also love the Kimchi Fried Rice and the pork buns. The fried rice has just the right balance of heat and tang from the kimchi, and the pork buns are soft, sweet and melt in your mouth. It’s the kind of place you can go to on a cold day, sit by the window and forget about everything for a while. The vibe is relaxed but cool, with a mix of students, locals and people who just love good noodles. Olmo 93 Whitney Ave., New Haven, Conn. 06510 Olmo has a reputation around town for being one of those spots that never disappoints. It’s near Yale, known for its bagels, brunches and creative use of local ingredients. Prices usually range from $10 to $20, and the quality makes it worth every penny. Even if you haven’t been yet, it’s one of those restaurants that people keep recommending with a smile. The menu changes with the seasons, and whether you’re stopping by for breakfast or a nice dinner, it’s the kind of place that instantly becomes a favorite. The atmosphere is calm and welcoming, a mix of cozy and refined that feels very New Haven. House of Naan Indian Kitchen and Bar 65 Howe St., New Haven, Conn. 06511 If I had to pick one restaurant that I could eat at every week and never get tired of, it would be House of Naan. I always get the Chicken Tikka Masala, and every time I do, I swear it tastes even better than before. The sauce is creamy and full of spice, the chicken is tender and the garlic naan is perfect for scooping up every bit. The restaurant has a modern look, dim lighting and a relaxed feel. It’s great for a dinner with friends or for treating yourself after a long day. Prices range from $12 to $25, and portions are generous. Every dish feels like it’s made with care. The Bottom Line These places have been my small escapes. Between busy weeks, film shoots and everything in between, they’ve been where I’ve laughed with friends, eaten until I couldn’t move and remembered why food is one of life’s purest joys. Good food isn’t just about taste. It’s about comfort, connection and finding little moments that make you feel at home. So next time you’re in New Haven and your stomach’s rumbling, skip the usual and try one of these spots. I promise, your taste buds and your soul will thank you.

Whether it is misremembering or a sickening form of nostalgia, something sinister hangs over memories of movies from our youth.  Never in my life has any current movie given me the same sense of primal fear as some childhood movies have given me. The heart racing and stomach sinking feeling that films like “Where the Wild Things Are” and “James and the Giant Peach” have given me have not been matched by any modern horror movie I have watched recently.  Yes, “Where the Wild Things Are” and “James and the Giant Peach”. The two titles are not a mistake. I am convinced these two movies have forever altered how I feel about fear. “James and the Giant Peach” directed by Henry Selick: Credited to: Henry Selick. 1996. James and the Giant Peach [Film].   Walt Disney Pictures. Childhood movies are obsessed with surrealism. The fantastical imagination and whimsical storyline is captivating for a younger audience, yet at the same time terrifying for my child self. Live action and stop motion claymation was fuel for nightmares to come.  The mindbending transition of James changing from a real boy to a doll-like figure while also being aware of his own change was horrifying to me. The hyperawareness of James's ability to process his physiological change gave me goosebumps and made the younger me think it was a real-life situation.  The color shift was jarring as well. The live action scenes are washed in a gloomy blue haze. James is pale and his aunts look sickly and villainish under such a dull light. Their colorful clothes are washed out and dimmed, making once vibrant clothes look old and weathered with time.  The claymation causes a brutal shift to vibrance. Colorful light dances across the screen and every color seems pitched to the brightest potential. It was as overwhelming as a funhouse and my eyes couldn’t adjust fast enough.  To add disorientation, “James and the Giant Peach” introduces a cast of wacky talking bugs that act as his guardians, yet they are equally as antagonistic at times to James on their journey to help him find a better life.  The film also plays on common childhood fears. As James and his unsettling companions travel through their quest, sailing on a giant peach in the ocean, you witness their near death when they are almost eaten by sharks, nearly drowned, and their peach boat is nearly sunk in the middle of the ocean, leaving them stranded.  As a result, I gained a new fear of oceans that day and have yet to step foot into one at 20 years old.  What scared me the most was witnessing a story of an abused child cope through escapism. This story at the end of the day is about James escaping the abuse and neglect of his aunts. This fantastical world is the imagination of a boy finding solace in a surreal world where he escapes and starts his life over again.  The ending can be interpreted in different ways, but when I was younger I always thought of it as a childish interpretation of a daydream. A daydream in which James dreams of the promise that life will get better once he’s older. This unsettled me to my core as a child, and made me process some of the dark realities of life that are usually avoided or considered taboo to introduce to kids.  I couldn’t recommend a better movie this Halloween. Even though this movie haunted me as a child, it is an interesting watch to dive into as an adult. I found myself appreciating the way they tackled such a topic.  “Where the Wild Things Are” directed by Spike Jonze Credited to: Spike Jonze. 2009. Where the Wild Things Are [Film]. Warner Bros.  My parents set me up for failure with this movie. While I was safely at home watching “James and the Giant Peach”, they threw me to the wolves when we sat in a movie theater to watch “Where the Wild Things Are”.  I was met with a child in instant peril as gigantic, humanoid, animalistic, growling, sharp-toothed  and clawed monsters chase the main character, Max, through the woods trying to eat and or maim him. On the big screen, I witnessed Max running for his life while I was stuck in a dark movie theater between my parents who couldn’t care less for the peril this kid was in.  If you strain your ears through the pounding of paws on the ground and the snarls of the Things, you can hear Max screaming and crying through the woods. The sheer volume of this scene made me burst into tears in the theater.  This is an intense scene for a kids movie, and it scared a few years off of my life at that very moment.  Easing my heart, a friendly Thing saved Max, and everything was settled within the Things and Max’s presence on the island. He even becomes the King of the Wild Things and rules over them by problem solving and handling the Things’ outbursts—which are equally as terrifying to witness.  Carol is one of the Things that has the biggest conflicts with Max. They are a representation of anger and aggression. Their outbursts are violent and rage induced, and on multiple occasions almost hurts Max and other Things during an episode. It is distressing to witness a child in genuine danger, especially when you are a child yourself.  The theater really expands that fear, with a screen so wide there is no way to truly distance yourself from what you are seeing and hearing. I remember feeling the rumble of the fights and the yelling in my chest.  Guilt and self-accountability is another theme within this movie that struck a different type of fear into me, when I was younger… reflection over my actions.  The whole premise of “Where the Wild Things Are” is about how Max, as a young boy, is learning to cope with big feelings as he grows up. In this story of self-discovery, he acts out towards his parents and gets into fights with them that leaves both them and Max hurt by each other.  In the end, of course, it concludes with Max understanding and processing his emotions and his actions, while being forgiven by both himself and his parents for the past.  Well, younger me didn’t understand the memo and began overthinking everything I have ever done and said within the short amount of time I was alive. This movie gave me a taste of a midlife crisis at the ripe age of five years old.  The experience of “Where the Wild Things Are” left such an impacting fear in me, I refused to rewatch the movie in preparation for this article. I also refused to look through scene clips because to this day I still feel such a powerful sense of dread. From these two movies, my opinion on horror will forever be set to a high standard. Horror doesn’t have to be a slasher or supernatural. Sometimes horror is created accidentally through the unsupervised mind of a child, which leaves a lasting mark in their mind.

I have a complicated relationship with the winged insect known as the bee. It’s a tale that stems from childhood fears and eventually extends through maturating adulthood.  On the fourth of July when I was young, our deck at home had been cleared of a huge bees nest. I trusted my father when he said it was safe, so I naively thought all the bees were gone. Yet I stepped on one, and it wiggled right in between my toes and stung me. Childhood glorifies good memories into hazy dreams and depicts the negative memories as much worse than they actually were. Of course, this centered around blaming the bee itself and perhaps villainizing it throughout my life. The more logistical culprit would be blaming my father for telling me the deck was clear.  Throughout my childhood, if I saw a bee, even if it was the bumble kind, I would run away. And those ones mind their own business. Over time I grew to the gradual conclusion that honeybees are harmless, and wasps are the real villains. After all, honeybees help pollinate and keep our crop growing and the environment healthy. To my understanding wasps do also pollinate plants but not to the level that deems it necessary to the entire environment’s wellbeing. Flash forward to the present day, and my outlook on the winged insect has changed. The species are particularly annoying at picnics or barbecues, yet have reached a matured appreciation for their place in the natural ecosystem. This image above is not by any means a masterpiece of photography, but it remains thought-provoking.  So many things that appear fascinating about the species remain rarely common knowledge. Even the fact that honeybees die when they sting someone and only do it in self defense was not something I learned until my hatred of the insect had already grown, and by that time it was difficult to foster any sympathy.  This particular photo was taken at Mystic Village. The honey vendor had a honeybee nest in a glass case and was able to point out to me and my family which one was the queen out of thousands. I have come full circle from childhood. What was once perceived to be a wrongdoing created a conditioned affect for me to fear the entire species, even though they had done nothing wrong.  I still feel angry towards wasps, don’t get me wrong as I think hornets and other insects that aren’t honeybees go out of their way to attack other people. In the end it’s just nature and it’s not life or death unless you have an allergy of sorts. In the photo, you can see my reflection in the waning daylight and while this arguably detracts from the quality of the image, it also creates a sense of duality. Bees on one side of the glass, and myself standing on the other side of the divide.  My knowledge about bees has grown as I have gotten older, and I no longer fear them. If anything, I almost admire them. Pesticides, climate change and habitat loss threaten their existence and our existence as well to keep their species in line so we have effective crops.  In a way this can be applied to how we interact with other people. As a child, I was riddled with fear of the unknown, the physical bee sting evolving into a psychological phobia. People are often afraid of the unknown because it is what they don’t understand. This is a lesson that once we learn more about something that scares us, we learn that they either aren’t all that bad or that we have things in common. Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not getting my bachelor's in beekeeping, but I do think it’s tragic that people continue to accept surface level truths, secluding their personal bubble to that of comfort and familiarity. Perhaps learning bees’ place in the world was part of growing up, as the more I learned the more I knew they weren’t inherently evil.  I guess that’s how I learned to love bees.

I let my anger get the best of me. Just like him. There are no words to describe being compared to someone your memories villainize. Though I knew my father beyond the anger, having one of your first memories of someone be something so traumatic doesn’t set a great tone, especially when you see them once a yNineteen. The last year of one's teens. The last chance to be a kid before the impending doom of your twenties begins to sink in. The age I am now and the age my father was when he discovered he would be having a daughter.  My father was a wild kid, according to the stories he has shared. I can only imagine what it would be like to have a conversation with him at nineteen. The same boy making music with his friends and getting into fistfights at the bar was supposed to be a parent. The keyword there is “supposed.” I would never consider my father to be a true parent, definitely not before my later teen years at least. I barely remember growing up but I will never forget the fear I would have being alone with him. One of my earliest memories, one that isn’t brought on by photos or hearing other stories, is of him. It is a memory of anger and aggression. My father walked in his college graduation when I was seven years old; he was 27. During that visit I watched him have a meltdown over some menial joke being made. I watched him destroy a centerpiece sitting on the table of the rental home my family was staying in. I can’t remember the words being said, only him throwing it and it shattering on the floor. I remember the fear I carried with me of ever upsetting him. I remember the wooden pieces scattered across the floor and my grandma asking me to help her clean them up.  He had left that night. Something he was no stranger to doing. He did go back but only because I asked him to. I thought I could bring my family together at that moment. If he went back to the house, everything would be okay. The anger that possessed that man was something I can only describe as evil. I feared ever upsetting him to the point where his eyes became even darker than they were. What I would never imagine at that age was that one day I would possess that anger. I never saw myself as my father’s daughter until one day it changed.  I can barely even remember why I was upset nor can I really remember the outcome; all I can remember is the words said to me in my fit of rage. “You’re just like your father.”  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I couldn’t be just like my father. I feared the person he could become yet there I was in my own fit of rage, realizing  I hadear… if at all. My father is not just an angry man. He is still a person with complex feelings and his own motivations and drive. For a long time I wanted to understand them. When I decided I wanted to go out of state for college, I practically only looked into schools he suggested and schools near him. I only looked at journalism programs because I thought that he would want that. Even though my father felt like a near stranger to me, I just wanted him to be proud. I just wanted my father to love me the way children were loved on television. During that time I convinced myself that this is what I wanted. I convinced myself these were my original hopes even though everyone saw through me. I chose to live the lie that I coincidentally wanted to be like my dad, down to living in the same city, when all I wanted was to feel connected to him. Studying journalism was something I did truly enjoy but nothing was better than the validation I got from my dad. I finally felt truly connected to him by something other than being related to each other. I finally felt like my dad was truly proud of me. Being in college only made me want to connect with my father more so I would attempt to reach out. I would do anything to be close with him. Go to his band practices. Even hang out with him and his girlfriend, a girl who is only seven years my senior.  Since moving to Connecticut, I have felt my relationship with my father improving. I have finally begun to feel like I have a dad; even if nine times out of 10 he still finds a way to hurt me, he’s still there and that's all I’ve ever wanted. In the years I’ve been in this state, I felt like I was finally learning what it was to have a father truly.  But I had a rude awakening. The girlfriend. She's great, don't get me wrong, but she's young, naive and complex. I’ve been in my relationship longer than she and my dad have but yet she moved cross-country for him. She’s 13 years younger than him and yet constantly talks about having his kids. He has kids… nay, he has one. Me.  While scrolling on Facebook one day, I came across a post saying they were looking for a new place to live, which I found strange since they’d only been in their place since March. But what stung was that they're moving to New York City. The city I was born and raised in. The city where I cried to mom about wishing my dad truly loved me. The city he left and with it left his three-year-old.  It's not fair. They can’t get this happily ever after. Not in my true home. I moved my life for him, all to have it crash down in less than 18 months. That didn’t matter. He has a family now, a real one. It's not the kid he didn’t want with the chick he doesn’t like but will tolerate at the occasional birthday party or graduation. He has a real family. One that isn’t broken, One where it won’t be the forced effect of babies having babies.  To truly be my father’s daughter is to be okay with the disappointment rooted in knowing you can do what you can and still not be the priority. To finally realize after 19 long years that people may grow and relationships may change but you have to be okay with being in second place. I am the age now that my father was when he learned he was having a baby and here we are. My father says, “I love you,” but I don’t think he knows what love is.

When I first met you, it was the kind of unexpected meeting we read about in romantic books.  It was never about looks.  It was the way you waltzed into my heart, like you owned the place.  I wasn’t ready, yet you showed me grace.  Suddenly, I wasn’t so afraid of the male race. Or maybe just you.  You were the only exception that I knew. I introduced you to my diary as Elevator Boy. Our frequent meetings in the elevator brought me joy. My diary entries became colorful with words like “cute”, “smart” and “different.” I couldn’t put my finger on what made you so important. My lack of experience in the matter made it even harder to tame my feelings. You were the main subject in my weekly therapy briefings. The elevator became more than floors and steel.  It turned into a capsule of how I feel.  A simple space of buttons and light  Became a stage where my soul took flight.  I began to wait for the sound of its doors sliding open, Hoping for the chance of seeing you inside  As if my heart has already been stolen.  Every ding of the doors brought a rush of chance. Every glance of yours was a stolen dance.  Each ride, a coin toss between disappointment and delight.  I dreamt of you waiting for me in that steel box every night.  Little did I know you were about to disappear. When my phone lit up with your name, I thought I was going insane. Was I so smitten with you that I was dreaming about you calling me? If only I had known then that you were about to set me free. Not for my benefit, but because you were bound to fade. The story we started would never be made. Our honeymoon phase never saw the sun,  And yet you broke my heart before it had begun. Change and the unknown are sometimes my biggest fears. They always manage to bring me to tears.  Some days, to help with the pain, I blame you. Other days, I thank you. Some days I curse you for making me cry. Other days I whisper a desperate “why.” Thank you for giving me something to look forward to. Thank you for showing me that there are exceptions too. If only I knew our time would be brief, Maybe just maybe I would have held on tighter, through joy and grief. After you left, my words grew dark, My diary became a painful mark. Words such as “pain” and “fear” filled every line. “Forgiveness” struggled to intertwine.  I made a list of things I should have said. A hundred thoughts ran through my head. You were ninety-nine of them, the rest was one, That single thought reminded me that waiting on you was done. Yet still, the echoes of the elevator doors never erased. Your shadow remains in my memory’s space.  Lately, the diary entries about you have lessened. I don’t know if it means that you have been forgiven or forgotten. There are still days when I wonder where you are  And whether you think of me as much as I do. I hope you don’t, because then it would mean you are in pain too. My love for you makes me pray you have moved on. It is fine if I am the only one who gets to think of you from dusk till dawn. Does love disappear, or does it transform? I wonder if longing dies or takes on a new form. Perhaps it softens, perhaps it bends,  Perhaps it lingers though the chapter ends.  The elevator doors closed on us fast, And today I stand, even though our love couldn’t last.  Maybe your purpose was not to stay, But to teach me love in a perfect way. To show me that courage lives in the heart, If it dares to open, it faces the risk of falling apart. Your gaze through those doors showed my heart a dance, Two souls giving each other a chance.  Your role was brief, but your impact was deep. Your voice wishing me good night is a secret I’ll keep.  So, I write of you still, in rhythm and rhyme, Not to trap you in pages, but to honor the time.  For words are my keepsake, gentle and true, The only souvenir I have of you. And though the doors have long since closed, And though the story was never composed, Sometimes in dreams, the elevator will ring, And I’ll remember the joy a boy once could bring.